Michael heard surprise, anger, and a hint of fear in Fiona's voice. He turned, followed her gaze. "What?"
"Keith O'Connor, in the flesh."
Irish name. Michael scanned the crowd. He didn't see anyone who looked like a former IRA compatriot of Fiona's, but she didn't look like a former IRA figther herself. No one looked particularly combat-ready, either. Fiona was always combat ready. Even in bed.
"He hasn't aged a day."
Michael scanned the crowd again. There, at the shaved ice shack, were two teenage boys. One had light brown skin and tightly-curled back hair, a guitar slung over his back. The other hand pale, freckled skin, glossy red hair, and an electric five-string bass slung over his back. He threw his head back, laughed at something the other boy said, and he had classic Irish features, the high cheekbones and thin lips.
"The wannabe emo rockers?"
Fiona nodded. She reached up, tugged her shades down to perch on her nose to cover her opportunity to stare. "The ginger. I'd know him anywhere."
The kid was slender, wearing a faded punk-rock t-shirt, with the sort of wiriness Michael associated with running or swimming. "What was he?"
"A chemistry student," Fiona said.
Improvised explosives expert, she meant.
"What's he doing in Miami?"
"I have no idea. Last I checked, he was dead."
The teenage girl at the shaved ice shack handed both boys their treats, and they pocketed their change, turned to go. Fiona had stared too long and too hard. The redhead turned toward them and paused. Recognition crossed his face, and he caught his friend's shoulder, shoved, hurried him toward the sidewalk where a couple of skateboards were propped up against the low wall of a planter.
Michael called out, "Hey Keith, long time no see."
If looks could kill, Keith would have been dead, and his friend would have been a murderer.
But Keith bit his lip and sighed, shook out his shoulders, and started toward them.
"I don't know you, sir, but I do know you." He lifted his chin at Fiona.
"Keith," Fiona said. She looked him up and down, lip curled in disdain. "Still so...juvenile."
Keith winced. "Still so acrimonious."
"No one likes a traitor."
Keith lifted his chin. "Family first, wasn't that our motto? Turned out half of my family was on the other side of the barricade."
"Really," Fiona said, "you haven't aged a day."
"Aye. And neither have you."
Up close, Keith and his friend were definitely teenagers.
Michael said, "What brings you to Miami?"
Keith tugged on the strap of his electric bass. "Battle of the bands."
"I didn't realize you liked music," Fiona said.
Keith shrugged. "There was a lot we didn't know about each other. I played cello in the school orchestra and me mam was a Prod. You fell in love with an undercover CIA agent."
Michael raised his eyebrows. "I thought you didn't know me."
"Knowing of someone isn't the same as knowing them." Keith shrugged. "So...we have to be at soundcheck. No snitching, ho foul, right?"
"Wrong," Fiona said. "My brother's dead because of you."
"On the contrary - your brother's dead because a British soldier shot him. My own brother is alive because of me - no thanks to you." Keith raised his snow cone in salute. "You had a gun at his head."
"He was a Prod."
"He was eleven," Keith said flatly. He leaned in, his voice low and dangerous. "If you want to play the 'who was worse game', I can defeat you roundly. Believe me." And he said something in rapid, rolling Irish.
Fiona went pale. "I didn't mean to. I was sorry. I didn't know --"
"And I did. You'd have done the same in my place." Keith straightened up. "So...enjoy your stroll along the beach. We're going to win a battle." He turned and walked away, toed his skateboard flat, and hopped on. His friend did the same, and they quickly vanished into the crowd.
"What was that about?" Michael said.
"I was wrong. He's not a teenager anymore." Fiona sighed, tossed her head. "Call Sam. I want mojitos."
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